In years past, I have carried winter so deeply in my bones that the final slog has been physical torture. Waking each morning with knots as dense as stone in my shoulders, neck, and arms; heels which barely touch the floor from the tightness of my calves; a mental agony manifesting in physical exhaustion. It was years before I recognized the pattern, and was able to give a name to my suffering; my undiagnosed but very real seasonal affective disorder. SAD. Has there ever been a more perfect acronym?
This year, on the other hand, has been pretty good. With yoga class and a steady but manageable professional schedule, I've kept in decent spirits. Still. Three blizzards in twelve days. The third one finally did me in physically and the familiar aches landed in joints like a dangerous slide back in time. My spirits, however, were buoyed, rescued even, by the dreams of planning Pribble's Patch.
